


Whatever happened to all this season's losers of the year

by Thorne



Category: Hockey RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Washington Capitals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2019-03-07 14:12:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13436463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thorne/pseuds/Thorne
Summary: Alex loves his kids, he really does, but he also might kill them. That is, if they don't put him in a goddamn early grave first.(Cop bribing, theft of public property, and how to photoshoot your dick properly in order to seduce a teammate: all part of a captain's responsibilities to his rookies.)





	Whatever happened to all this season's losers of the year

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rose_indigo_and_tom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rose_indigo_and_tom/gifts).



> To my recipient, thanks for the opportunity, and sorry I didn't go strictly by your prompts, but I tried to go for the slice of life and fluff you requested, with several of the pairings implicated or mentioned!

"Your phone keeps buzzing and I will fucking smash it if you don't do something about it right fucking now," Nicky says, or something approximate to that directly into Alex's ear. Alex grumbles and gropes blindly on the nightstand for his phone when Nicky doesn't go back to properly spooning him and the buzzing doesn't stop, and as much as every instinct in his body is yelling to turn it off so he can go back to both sleep and the warm spot in the bed where Nicky presumably is, he answers it.

It's a joke at first, but then it starts happening with some regularity, and Burky getting pulled over for speeding makes them take it a little more seriously—("Make sure the dash cam is recording," Alex had said to Nicky, hanging over his shoulder while Nicky was trying to talk Burky through being polite enough to the cop to avoid a ticket, and Nicky had covered his phone's receiver enough to say "I don't have a dash cam," and clamped his hand down over it even harder when Alex  had made a squawk of dismay, and then he said, "No, that was to Ovi," and then, "That was also Ovi," and, "It doesn't matter why Ovi's at my house, Andre, _pay attention_."

"What the fuck, how can you not have dash cam?" Alex had asked Nicky, after a lot of rapid-fire Swedish being exchanged over the phone, Nicky making a truly prodigious array of murderous facial expressions, and Burky finally being set free, hopefully unticketed. "In Russia, if there's no dash cam, you get so fucked."

"Sweden is different," Nicky had said. "And so is America," he had added, forestalling Alex's next thing to sputter over.

"Not _that_ different," Alex had muttered. "Please say you always have tickets for bribes. Like, I mean, game tickets, Caps tickets."

Nicky had raised his eyebrows. "How do you think I got the cop not to give Andre a speed ticket?" And then he had smiled, one of the slow, amused ones that still make Alex's heart turn over in his chest every time he sees them. "Also, I need your free tickets for the opener, now. Mine apparently just got used to bail Andre's ass out.")

So, there's always the group chat, and they all have each other's phone numbers as a matter of course anyway, but Alex makes sure to corner each new teammate (and especially the rookies) at the start of the season and give them The Bail Talk, and he's not above dragging in Nicky, or Brooks, or one of the older vets as backup for when whoever he's telling inevitably doesn't think he's being serious. Because it's happened enough times now that Alex has an actual process involved, even when it happens to the ones he doesn't expect.

But in this case, he _totally_ expected it. He's actually more surprised that it took this long.

Latts sounds panicky and out of breath, repeating his words in a jumble, and Alex has to tell him to slow down at least three times while he yawns and stumbles around his bedroom at two in the morning, looking for his pants. Does he really need pants? Pants are probably only holding him back in his career. He's downstairs and groping for his keys when Nicky stumbles down the stairs behind him and intercepts him with a pair of sweats, which is impressive since Nicky only looks maybe ten percent more awake than Alex is. Alex grunts in thanks, and in return finds a beanie to cover up Nicky's terrible bedhead, since it's probably beyond salvaging with just a hoodie. Neither of them look particularly respectable, but at this point, it's more a matter of not looking actively disreputable.

"Did they have Andre with them?" Nicky asks him. He's already gotten into the passenger side seat and is digging around for the charging cable, before he plugs his own phone in, squinting at it like he can mentally will it to start connecting to the Bluetooth before Alex actually starts the car.

"Dunno," Alex says. "Maybe. Latts just says, please come, please come, please please please, Willy too pretty for jail. I think maybe he's crying."

Alex slams the driver's side door shut, turns the key, and cranks the heat inside his car. At this time of night it's only going to be a twenty minute drive, but it's cold _now_ , and he's regretting moving from Arlington to Mclean.

"If they're crying, don't film it," Nicky says. Alex hums noncommittally and backs out. "I mean it," Nicky says, apparently not falling for Alex's tactics. " _No filming_. And no pictures that end up on twitter or Instagram."

"Snapchat?" Alex asks hopefully.

Nicky just gives him a look.

" _Fine_ ," Alex says, and sighs. "No one let me have fun."

"If there's no jail and no one else from the Caps or media finds out and we don't all have to sit through a PR talk, I will let you have fun," Nicky says, with an air of magnanimous concession that's only slightly ruined by the massive yawn at the end.

"What kind of fun?" Alex asks, sneaking a glance at Nicky as he drives. "How much?"

"Enough fun," Nicky says sternly and turns his head away, but Alex sees that same curl of amused smile in the reflection of the window, and Alex hums a little more and speeds a little faster.

Ballston is quiet as they drive in, hardly a hotbed for nightlife activity. They pass Kettler and keep going; eventually Alex pulls up to the Target and sees what he's been looking for in the parking lot: a parked police cruiser with the lights on but not flashing, a police officer standing on the sidewalk with his arms crossed over his chest, and three mostly terrified-looking dumbass rookies sitting on the curb in a neat little row: Latts, Burky, Willy. They are not crying, though Alex thinks it might be a near thing in Willy's case. Latts looks like he's about to throw up. Burky, who Alex would have for sure pegged for a potential weeper, just looks kind of excited, because he has no goddamn common sense.

No one's in handcuffs (yet, anyway), which is at least one good sign.

"I never had these problems with Mackan," Nicky says, staring out the window with narrowed eyes. "He always behaved."

"It's because he have, you know—" Alex waved his hand around the lower half of his face to indicate the shape of a goatee. "Always like an adult even when he's rookie. Jojo is born old."

Alex takes his time pulling over, parking, and getting out of the car, making sure the tickets are already in his wallet and holding his wallet in one hand. He glances over at Nicky. "Coming?"

Nicky shakes his head. "No. Just you."

"Oh," Alex says, perking up a little. "I can be good or bad cop?"

Nicky _hmms_ contemplatively. "You're always the nice one."

"Not always," Alex says. "I can do murder face too; Nisky helps and gives me tips."

"I'm going to yell at them," Nicky says, and yawns again. Alex has to stifle a sympathetic yawn. "I need time to think what to yell."

"Your yelling is best," Alex says, because it is, it really is. He's had it directed it at himself often enough to know. Nicky yells like a fucking champ when he wants to, and it's even more effective because he doesn't _look_ like he'd be a yeller, which gives him an added edge of surprise.

"I'll yell at them in the car," Nicky says. He slouches down in the seat. "Plus, it's too fucking cold. Leave the heat on."

"Pffht," Alex scoffs, but he leaves the keys in and the engine running. Looking across the parking lot, he takes a deep breath, exhales it in front of him in a cloud, and then he heads over to the kids. He strolls up slowly, keeping his hands out of his pockets and doing his best to look as mellow and non-threatening as he can, given that it's cold as balls and he's been woken up at two in the morning and made to get out of bed and put on pants for this bullshit. And not even his favorite pants, too.

"Hi, yes, officer?" he says when he gets close enough, and is reasonably sure he's not going to get shot. "I'm Alex Ovechkin. You have my idiot children?"

The police officer, an older man with iron-gray hair and a meticulously groomed mustache that would put even Alzy's to shame, gives him the slightly dubious once-over. Alex lets him. He left his tooth out and wore all Caps gear for a reason; even half-asleep, he's managed to pull together an outfit that's got the logo prominently displayed in at least four places. He knows the public image most people have of him in DC: more than a little clownish, party-loving, carefree. It's worth playing up; he knows people think of him as—not stupid, precisely, but simple. They don't expect subtlety or guile or intelligence. They think it's all out on the surface with him. And maybe it is, and maybe he's truly at his best on the ice, and maybe he also is what they think of him, the Russian bear with his missing tooth lumbering around DC, vodka in one hand and hockey stick in the other, laughing, joking, always going back and forth between making or being the punchline.

It's all right. There are only a few people whose expectations he cares about proving or living up to. And it's sometimes useful to be thought of one way, because, much like Nicky and his angry yelling prowess, people thinking he's stupid tends to work in his favor; he can catch them off guard, and it's good cover for when he actually _is_ stupid.

Alex smiles, waits, and lets the man look him over to his satisfaction, before he points to Willy, Latts, and Burky. "Thank you for let them call me. We're teammates, I'm captain, I always tell them to call me if they get in trouble because my job to make sure they don't do stupid shit. You arrest them? I need to pay bail?"

Frankly, this would all be much easier in Russia. Alex could just straight up bribe, threaten, or pay off the cop in a civilized and straightforward manner, rather than gradually leading up to the issue and cloaking it in euphemisms, with the double challenge of said euphemisms being in English.  Focusing on looking trustworthy and being charming while he's cold and cranky, rather than warm and asleep and spooning with Nicky, takes a lot of energy.

But, it is what it is. And Alex refuses to back down from a challenge.

The police officer finally shakes his head. "No one's arrested.  I'm Officer Jim Blagget. May I see your ID?"

Alex holds up his hand with the wallet in it, and then fumbles his driver's license out, pulling the tickets out partway at the same time. When he proffers it, the officer takes it and looks it over with the same care, glancing from the license to Alex's face. Alex can feel himself making the automatic self-conscious grimace of someone getting their identity checked, and tries to smile again. He can feel the stiff cardboard edge of the tickets pressing against his thumb but he doesn’t look down at them yet; it's still too early for that.

The officer seems satisfied, and hands Alex's license back. Alex puts it back in his wallet. "Thank you, Mr. Ovechkin. Are you aware of the circumstances for which I've detained your… friends?"

Alex sighs heavily, maintaining eye contact but rubbing the back of his neck and keeping the kids in the corner of his line of vision. "I'm responsible. They almost my kids, honest. They get in a fight? They drink? I can ground them."

Burky opens his mouth and looks like he plans to say something in response to that, but Alex sees Latts pinch him savagely on the arm, and Willy simultaneously elbows him in the side.  Burky's mouth snaps shut, and he just looks wounded and a little indignant instead.

The police officer gestures and points up with one hand.  "They were trying," he says, with a dry tone, "to steal this street sign."

Alex looks up. The green street sign with its white lettering is slightly bent, but still attached to the metal post it's mounted on. " _Wilson Boulevard_ ," Alex reads out loud, and then shakes his head in order to convey the deepest and most sorrowful disappointment. "Oh, Willy."

Willy hunches his shoulders, puts his elbows on his knees, and tries to disappear behind Burky, which is sort of like a water buffalo trying to hide behind a baby giraffe, and about as effective. "Mike dared me," he mumbles directly to the asphalt between his feet

"I said it would be funny, I didn't say to _do_ it," Latts hisses back.

"You said it would look cool in the apartment over the ping pong table, and you let him climb on your back to try and reach it, though," Burky pipes up, and then wilts when both Latts and Willy shoot dagger eyes at him. "I helped too. And it _would_ look cool."

"Well, they don't do a very good job stealing it," Alex says, trying for damage control. "It's still there."

"Nevertheless," the officer says, "it's an attempt to damage or steal public property. And it's important to know that stealing street signs is not only an expense for the city to replace, it's extremely dangerous for drivers who could potentially have an accident because of it. You could be charged with a misdemeanor and a hefty fine, and even up to a year in jail."

This is where, in Russia, the officer would have probably told Alex exactly how much it cost to replace a street sign, and Alex would have generously offered to pay a fine or donation to facilitate future signs, and he would collect his wayward children and be on his way. Here, he probably has at least twenty more minutes of disappointed posturing, heavy sighing, and dramatic wringing hand gestures to unload, as well as figuring out if he should give the man two or four tickets to their upcoming game against the Bruins.  Also, he thinks he put the shirt beneath his hoodie on inside out because he can feel the tag chafing his throat and it's very annoying, but he can't do anything about that right now.

"Safe driving is very important," Alex agrees. "Most important. People need to be careful, pay attention, don't speed. I say the same thing all the time."

Nicky is about fifteen meters away in the car and no doubt has egregiously adjusted Alex's radio and also kept the heater on full blast, so there's no possible way he could have heard what Alex just said, but Alex imagines he felt the instinctual urge to cough pointedly and roll his eyes anyway. As it is, he catches Latts, Willy, and Burky all sharing a quick skeptical look between the three of them, and he resolves to let Nicky yell his heart out at the little shits as soon as he's got them safely back in his car. Especially Burky, who has no business looking down on Alex's driving skills, and who Alex hasn't ratted out yet for sending him three dick pics out of the blue a couple weeks ago.

(In principle, Alex never minds unexpected dick pics, but Burky is like, _a baby_ , and also Alex is almost positive the specific pics in question were actually meant for Holtby, since Burky's got his phone contacts alphabetized by first name. The pics were accompanied by some sexts that were poorly spelled even by Alex's standards, and a string of emojis that included a heart, a kissyface, three red goal lights, five eggplants, the Canadian flag, two biceps, and, somewhat bafflingly, a deer, though Alex supposes though Burky's drunk-vision it could have been mistaken for a moose.

Alex had pondered for at least ten minutes over how to handle the situation and respond, which was nine minutes and thirty seconds more than he usually needed to think over how to reply to a dick pic, but this is different because he's the captain, and Burky is a rookie who is ten years younger, potentially hot for their starting goalie, and who takes a really _terrible_ dick pic. There's a lot to get Alex in trouble with here on multiple levels, and he probably should have either narced to Nicky or just left it alone,  but he'd still ended up sending a dick pic back to Burky anyway, along with a follow-up text saying _natural light best ahahaha)))) DON'T SHOW FACE!!!_ Then he'd also promptly posted the same dick pic he'd just sent to Burky—it was a good one, too, featuring a strategically placed weagle rub-on tattoo and one of the Backstrom garden gnomes that had been a fan giveaway a couple years ago—on the team's group chat with the message _hahahaha best )))._

That got him an unamused earful from Nicky about good example setting and putting their bedroom out on the team chat, but also prompted a return flood of dick pics on the group chat from almost everyone else on the team, starting with Stick barely five minutes after Alex posted, who had apparently raided his daughter's Disney Princess accessories, because his dick was resplendent in a doll's gown that looked like it was probably from the _Frozen_ movie, and a tiny tiara. Fortunately, Burky had at least showed some ability to reflect, observe, and learn, because he managed to wait an hour before joining in on the chat, and the pic he posted there had much better lighting and composition than the ones Alex had originally gotten.

Overall, Alex thinks it worked out, because Holtby's dick showed up about nine dicks into the chat, and now Burky has a better idea of what he's going to have to work towards obtaining and also how to actually take a dick pic worth looking at. Burky had brought him Starbucks every morning for two weeks in what Alex assumed was a combined gesture of thanks and apology, though they never discussed it and Burky didn't actually make eye contact with Alex until well into the second week.)

Anyway, the cold, the lateness of the hour, the fact his driving skills were just implicitly questioned by a bunch of rookies who Alex is _helping_ out of the goodness of his heart, and the fact he'll never be able to erase from his mind the knowledge that Burky used the phrase "score five hole" in his drunken Holtby seduction attempt, are what prompt Alex in his next words to the cop.

"I think, officer," Alex says with no small amount of malice in his heart, "it's most important for you to tell us how bad accident can be if street sign get stolen. With lots of detail. So they _learn_."

He turns just enough so his face won’t be visible to the kids, and he gives the police officer a quick wink and slight nod. And this is it, this is where he can win this stupid situation over to his side, or he can get them into some real trouble that will require the super-secret emergency phone number Sergey Kocharov gave him and at least three sessions of public images and behavior lectures by James from PR, so Alex holds his breath to see which way it will tip. Sometimes you have to lean into it to get control, like taking a hit to set up something better.

The officer—Alex is off his game; he's forgotten what the man's name is, and he should have been using it in conversation—stares at him with no discernible expression. Alex waits. And then, just when Alex is considering the last ditch wallet spill move, complete with accidentally-on-purpose dropping the tickets on the ground, picking them up, and seeing if that does the trick, the officer's face relaxes; he looks more amused than anything else; and he gives Alex just the barest inclination of a nod back.

"You know, back in the eighties, there were a couple groups of high school boys, trying to one-up each other with some petty rivalry. Prep and Gonzaga boys, I believe," the officer says gravely. "Now, it was apparently homecoming season, and spirits were flying high, and some of these boys were _drinking_. And I suppose they thought it was a good idea to take a little joy ride down to Eye Street. I'm not sure how familiar you are with the history of the District street layout, but L'Enfant was commissioned to design the city's layout…"

Alex nods along enthusiastically where appropriate, making encouraging noises every now and then, and stamping his feet to keep warm. He really should have worn socks. The kids are shifting uncomfortably on the curb, so at least Alex is comforted by the fact they're probably freezing their asses off, literally. He's not sure what will be a better Christmas present—if he doesn't end up buying dash cams for all of them, maybe he'll just take them all out and foot the bill to get them properly drunk, since this sort of dumbass shit is apparently what they get up to while sober.

"…when you're driving forty miles per hour, you don't realize you're traveling at fifty eight feet per second. Now, I don't know how much physics you boys studied, but you do that, that's you and your body, essentially traveling through space at that speed. If your car hits, say, a telephone pole or another car at that velocity, your body is stopping but the car is decelerating…"

Of course, going by what he knows is in their liquor cabinet, it's not like he has much more faith in their ability to drink. The last time he'd been in the Latta-Wilson apartment, they'd proudly showed him a jug of something called Popov's and asked him if he'd ever heard of it in Russia.

He'd also noticed within five minutes of walking in, that despite the fact Burky had moved out at the start of the season, there were two empty-ish looking bedrooms instead of just one. It didn't take a genius to figure out why. Hell, anyone who spent more than five minutes with Latts and Willy could probably put two and two together, much less someone who was Alex, thank you very much. When he'd made an innocuous comment about more space, though, they'd both come out with the _super lame_ excuse that they were painting Willy's bedroom, and then stumbled over each other in a panic to explain why there was no painting supplies or equipment, and there was more nonsense about how the ventilation in Willy's room wasn't very good, and then even more panic.

That was about when they'd tried to distract him with the vodka. To their credit, it worked, because Alex is actively depressed over anyone he captains having such terrible taste in vodka, and that's a problem he needs to resolve before tackling the fact that they think Alex doesn't already know or would even care about them being in a relationship. (Alex is more upset that Nicky had been annoyingly blasé about Alex rushing home to gossip about Latts and Willy, shrugging and mentioning he'd seen them doing, as Nicky put it, "shower things" over a year ago. Nicky should have been willing to share the gossip.)

Alex certainly isn't planning to tell any of them to drink or not, but as with capturing pictures of junk on camera, he'd like all of them to at least know how to do it _properly_. And Burky probably isn't even supposed to be drinking at his age, though he clearly hasn't let that stop him, or his libido. 

Anyway, Alex has a bet riding with Nicky to see how long they'll try and perpetuate the room painting lie, so he keeps forwarding them Pintrest links for complicated design ideas and Home Depot sales emails to see if they'll commit to it on a grander scale and actually paint the place or not.

"…now the average human being has six to eight pints of blood in them. And there's, say, two hundred and six bones. So, that's seven teenage boys, probably just a little under your age and sizes. Take eight pints and multiply it by seven…"

Dima and Zhenya and Stasik are so much better behaved. None of them have done anything of late that required Alex's intervention with the law, _or_ drunk-sexted him, _or_ tried to steal a street sign, _or_ had misplaced priorities in saving money by drinking shitty liquor. Dima punched a linesman that one time, but that was just unfortunate (if hilarious) collateral damage from trying to punch Jeff Skinner, and therefore totally understandable; Zhenya does tend to use Alex's name to get restaurant reservations at places that are already booked up, but since Alex is getting the benefit of that as well, he doesn't really mind. Stasik is unhappy about being a scratch, but he handles it professionally.

If they are having a secret love affair with each other or thirsting after Holby's dick, they are being extremely discreet about it.

Alex should really give them some sort of reward for their good behavior, though they already possess dash cams and vodka of sufficient quality. Maybe he'll start something similar to the Honest Abe hat and beard, and let whichever one of them is in his best graces at the moment wear a designated hat to indicate their good standing. Something that could fit any of them, and preferably something ridiculous, though that would be a harder sell. If he got Nicky to introduce it, that might help.

He could break away from the hat trend altogether, and just come up with a points system, but that seems like a lot of work to track; he'd have to put Nicky in charge of it, and Nicky would probably somehow make Alex end up competing for points as well, and he'll be in over his head before he knows it. He'll have to keep fine-tuning this plan.

"…and they never found his head," the officer finishes, after a dramatic pause.

Alex knows a cue when he hears one, and snaps his attention back to the situation at hand. "You see?" he says, turning to the kids. "Now you know all the danger. It's stupid. You have to be smart. You understand?"

"We're sorry," Latts says. He sits up straight on the curb, makes eye contact, and doesn't mumble. Alex's heart swells with pride. "We're really sorry, it was dumb. We weren't thinking. I shouldn't have said that to Tom, and I know, like, I should have just had us go home."

"No, it was me, it was my fault, I'm sorry," Willy says. "Mike and Andre didn't do anything. I was the only one who was yanking on it, and I'm the one who should be in trouble, not them, please. I'm really sorry."

"Really sorry," Burky echoes them both, and looks up at the police officer with the saddest, most vulnerable expression Alex had seen since three days ago when they were playing the Flyers and he'd been trying to get a boarding major called instead of a roughing. Alex is secretly sure that he's able to both tear up and somehow make his eyes bigger on command. When he combines it with the lip-tremble, it's downright deadly.

The police officer lets them sweat it out for a few more seconds, and then he nods. "Well, I'm glad to hear that. I'm just going to warn you this time and I'll let you go home with your—" he glances over at Alex and raises his eyebrows. "—with him. But I want you boys to know that if there's a next time, things won't be so lenient. No one wants this kind of black mark on their record when they're young." A smile finally cracks his face. "And you boys should be focused on more important things, anyway. I saw that last game you played against the Jackets. You need to save all that energy you've got going on out here for the ice."

"You follow hockey!" Alex says, and immediately switches from placatory damage control to season ticket holder event mode. "You a Caps fan? From DC? Please don't say Pittsburgh fan, or I'm gonna be sad."

"Born and raised here," the police officer says. "Been watching y'all since seventy four. Just about broke my heart a couple times, but I'm hoping this year's different."

"We gonna do it," Alex says. They're almost home free. "Good coach, good team. Just need some luck. Hang on, you got pen I can use? I can sign thing, plus, I got—" he fumbles his wallet just enough, and pops the tickets all the way out with a well-practiced flick of the thumb. He takes the pen, and signs the top ticket with a looping scrawl, and adds a smiley face next to his customary 8. "Wait, how you spell the name?"

"John with an h, Blagget, B-L-A-double Gee-E-T," the officer says. He hesitates. "Though, if you don't mind, I've got a son in college."

Alex resigns himself to giving away four tickets instead of two, and shuffles them, finding a new one to sign. "Yes, okay, what's his name?  Also, they can get up, come with me now?"

"Sure, they're all free to go," the officer says, "and my son's name is Josh." All three of the kids get up immediately, if a little stiffly. Alex signs the last ticket with a flourish and reaches out to shake the officer's hand, smoothly handing the signed tickets to him at the same time.

"I couldn't," the officer says, but he makes no attempt to hand them back. He does give Alex back all three of the kids' driver's licenses; Alex promptly stows them in his pocket.

"We need all Caps fans to come cheer, enjoy the game with us," Alex says. "I can get other players to sign too, if you show up. I get all of them to do it, if you wear my jersey."

"I'll keep that in mind, son," the officer says. He puts them in his pocket. "Now take your boys home."

"I'm gonna drive them there, thanks," Alex says. He motions to the kids. "All you, come on. Say thanks."

"Sorry, thanks, sorry, officer," they all mumble, as they walk by, following Alex obediently like a line of ducklings.

"Now, thank _me_ ," Alex says, as they walk over to the car. "Also, each of you owe me two game tickets."

"Can I have my license back?" Burky asks. "Also, we could have walked home. Also, shotgun!" he says, and darts around to the passenger side of the front seat.

"Nuh-uh, I'm make sure you get home safe like I promise police," Alex says. "That's what team captain does. Willy, Latts, you get in back."

"Are you gonna tell anyone?" Latts asks, with some trepidation. "Like, Trotz? Or Mac?"

"No," Alex says. "Not Trotz or Mac."

"Hello, my kids," Nicky's voice says calmly, and it's only by the greatest effort Alex doesn't flinch and jump like all three of the kids do. Burky actually squeaks. At some point, Nicky must have somehow got out of the car without being noticed and lurked in the shadows just to do this; Nicky's so much more of a dramatic, evil genius than anyone gives him credit for.

"You told _Papa_ on us," Willy says, looking betrayed.

"Ha. You say it like Backy doesn't have power to always know when you doing dumb shit," Alex says, and snorts.

"I want you to know that I'm not really angry with you," Nicky says, in a very even-toned voice. "In fact, I'm glad you did the right thing and called Ovi and me like we told you to do at training camp."

All three of the kids immediately look wary.

"But," Nicky continues, "I'm going to yell at all of you in the car while Ovi drives and finds someplace that will sell me coffee at three in the morning. First separately, then together." He looks over at Alex expectantly.

"Seems fair," Alex agrees. "Front or back seat?"

"I'm sitting in front," Nicky says. "Otherwise we have to stop to make them change seats each time, and I don't want any of them to jump out of the car when we do. Latts, you're oldest, so you're first. Then Willy. Andre, get out of my seat."

Alex watches Burky visibly think about protesting that he called shotgun, and then his survival instincts kick in. He gets out of the front seat without an argument and slides into the back, Latts getting in next to him, and Willy climbing in last.

"I have their driver's licenses if they to jump out anyway," Alex says, and hands them over to Nicky. "Also, no drinking, just stupid. They tried to steal a street sign with Willy's name, you know, Wilson. That's why cop stops them."

Nicky makes a satisfied noise, and tucks the licenses in his own pocket. He gets back into the passenger seat, and Alex goes around to the driver's side. He pauses for a moment, thinking, and then takes his phone out and dials Sasha Gusev's number. It takes a while for him to get an answer, but eventually it's picked up.  "The fuck?" he hears groggily from the other end.

"Goose! I need a favor. I need you to get some stuff from my house and bring it to a place. I'll text you the address and everything," Alex says. He holds the phone away from his ear at the burst of profanity, waiting until it slows down. "Thanks, Goose. You're the best."

"I hate you," Goose informs him gloomily, yawns, and sighs. "Fine, tell me what you need and where."

It's handy having good friends who don't ask too many questions. It only takes another few minutes to coordinate, but by the time Alex hangs up and gets into the car, Nicky is already turned in his seat and is in full yell, and Latts has gone right back to looking like he's going to throw up. Willy and Burky are cowering in the corner, and don't look much better. Alex adjusts the heat up, the volume of his music down, guns the engine, and takes off.

It's going to take a while, and Alex has some delicate timing issues to juggle so that everything comes into place when it should, so he glances at the dashboard clock to note the time, and heads towards the toll road. He's developed a decent route along the river and GW Parkway that he uses when visitors want to see most of the DC monuments and scenic points but don't actually want to walk among them or get out of the car. If Nicky's going to verbally flay the kids, they might as well have a nice view while it happens. Much like the police officer's story, Alex tunes out, only checking back in briefly when Nicky switches from Latts to Willy, and then again from Willy to Burky, seamlessly transitioning.

Alex notices that at some point Willy and Latts must've started clutching each other's hands for support, and they're still doing it, partially hidden by Willy's coat.

When it feels like Burky's turn is winding down (Nicky's switched from questioning Burky's ability to respect authority figures to lamenting how that bad seed McDavid was a ruinous influence from their time in Erie together), Alex's already headed back towards Arlington. Nicky did the first half of Burky's turn in English, presumably out of fairness to Latts and Willy, but he's been switched to Swedish for the last five minutes, and Burky is sinking lower and lower, like he can just disappear into Alex's rear seat cushions.

Nicky finally stops, blinks, and looks around. "Where are we? Also, use your turn signal."

"There's no one else driving on road right now, Backy," Alex says patiently.

"That doesn't matter."

"No one will care."

"We just saw there are bored cops with nothing to do but arrest stupid young hockey players," Nicky says, and cuts his gaze towards the backseat.

"Yes, but I'm old hockey player, not young one," Alex says. "Everyone says so. Gray hair, probably never score fifty goals again."

"It's setting a bad example," Nicky says. "Also, where is my coffee?"

"Coffee is coming," Alex says, and turns down another street and into a shopping center. He deliberately doesn't meet Nicky's gaze, even though he can practically feel it against him. Nicky's attention feels like strong sunlight; Alex can't help but bask in it even when it might not be the best idea.

"From here?" Nicky says, and then sighs.

"McDonalds!" Willy says, sitting up. "Hey, can I have a sausage McMuffin? And fries? And a shake?"

"Oh my God, Sasha, really?" Nicky hisses. "You're undermining me."

"You said I'm good cop," Alex says, and pulls into the drive-through. "I'm hungry," he says cheerfully to the rest of the car. "Okay, yelling is done, what should we eat?"

It takes them a full ten minutes to get everyone's orders in to the drive through manager, and Nicky practically radiates disapproval the entire time. Alex hands bags through the back of the car, but doesn't give Nicky the coffee. "Not for you," he says.

"Oh?" Nicky says, eyebrow raised

"You think so bad of me, Backy, it break my heart," Alex says. He pulls out of the drive through and instead of leaving, he turns into one of the parking spots next to one of the only other parked cars, rolls down the window, and sticks his arm out. "Goose! Here!"

Goose emerges from the car, grumbling. "Seriously, I hate you, Sasha," he says, as he hands Alex an insulated stainless steel travel mug, which Alex immediately hands over to Nicky.

"See?" Alex says.

"Hmm," Nicky says. He opens the top, inhales, then takes a careful sip. He closes his eyes. "Fine. But I could have yelled more."

"Got everything?" Alex asks Goose.

"Yes, yes," Goose says, and motions towards his own trunk. Alex opens his car door and goes over to check it out. He hoists up one duffle bag, and Goose gets the other, and together they get both bags loaded in the trunk of Alex's car, as well as the short collapsible step ladder.

"We still doing dinner at Mari Vanna on Thursday?" Goose asks.

"Right after game," Alex promises. "Thanks, Goose." He gives him a hug, a thump on the shoulder, and a quarter pounder combo meal, and gets back in the car.

"So, like," Latts says as Alex starts the car again. "Did you just do, like, a Russian weapons deal or something in the McDonalds parking lot? Are we accessories to international espionage? Also, do we get our driver's licenses back, because I'm really gonna need mine at some point."

"You get it when we take you back, but first we gotta do something," Alex says, reversing and heading out of the lot.

"Did you just run that red light," Nicky asks, in a voice that isn't really a question.

"It was yellow light, Backy." Alex grabs a handful of fries and stuffs them in his mouth.

"Yellow means you slow down."

"Yellow light mean go fast so you don't get red light."

"Pull over, I want to drive," Nicky says.

Alex deflects this neatly by throwing Burky under the bus with no remorse. "Burky got drunk and tried to send dick pics to Holts three weeks ago."

" _What_ ," Nicky says, head whipping around, and Burky sputters around a mouthful of burger, food going everywhere.

"I didn't!" he insists.

"Relax, it's okay, Holts didn't get them," Alex says. "Don't get food on my car seats."

"Man, you got drunk and your first instinct was to try and get with the Holtbeast?" Latts asks. "Damn, little Andre. That's bold. That's, like, trying to climb Mount Everest for your first try. I mean, it's kinda cool, aim high and dream big and all that, but wow."

"I mean, it's Holts. If you're not even just a little bit attracted to him, you're probably dead," Willy says.

"Three weeks ago?" Alex sees Nicky putting the pieces together with his terrifying brain, and he narrows his eyes at Alex. "Is that why you put that picture on the chat? Have you been _encouraging_ him?"

"Backy, he tried to send dick pics that have his _face_ in, too," Alex says urgently. "I _had_ to make him learn and do better."

He doesn't bother to add that he was trying to help Burky in other respects; buying condoms when you don't know the size of the dick you'll be working with is always a tricky affair. Better to settle for just hand jobs on the first date when going in blind, but he has no faith Burky would restrain himself to that if he ever got even close to the opportunity, so anything that contributed towards pre-game scouting of Holtby's dick is probably only going to help Burky in the long run.

"Dude, really?" Willy says, turning to look at Burky. "Oh, man, Burky, you _never_ include the face. That's, like, rule one."

"Shut up!" Burky says, turning bright red.

"You never show your face," Latts confirms. "That's up there with not going ass to mouth. C'mon, Burky, have some sense."

"Shut up! It's not the same as you and Tom!" Burky goes pale instead of red right after he says that, and hunches down. Willy and Latts freeze up as well. Alex looks over at Nicky; Nicky furrows his brow and tilts his head towards the kids. Alex nods back. Nothing else to be done, even if it means he loses his bet with Nicky about the paint.

"It's not same, yes, because Willy and Latts only do stuff and show off dicks to each other in their bedroom, which is safe," Alex says. He doesn't mention the locker room showers; Nicky can bring that up if he ever wants to. If he does, Alex hopes he's also in the vicinity so he can watch Latts and Willy's faces. "That's fine. That's what they do, and we all very happy for them. But never, never, never send dick pic with your face, even to teammate. Even to really nice, really hot teammate like Holts. Someone else always can maybe get the pic, and then you're fucked. Not good fucked, bad."

The car is silent. He decides he might as well put all his wisdom into one session. "Also, carry game tickets for if you need to use them for bribes, and always have a dash cam. I buy you guys each one."

"Thanks," Latts says, after another long, awkward moment.

"Welcome," Alex says, and pulls over to the side of the street. "Right. We here."

"Where are we?" Willy asks. "This isn't our complex."

Alex turns around in his seat to look at Willy and the other two. "Okay, time for test. I'm captain, and I give you lots of advice and stuff. What's most important advice I tell you? Not about dick pics, we do that already."

"Um." The kids all look at each other, and then back to Alex helplessly.   "Don't… steal street signs? Call you if the police are there?" Latts tries. "Is this a trick question?"

"No," Alex says. "I mean, yes, call me, but that's not right advice answer."

"Puke and rally," Burky says.

"Ow! Backy, you hit me in front of our kids, they worry about divorce," Alex says. "Again, it's yes, no. More, you know, like, hockey. So, Willy?"

"If I'm on your line, dump it in if Backy isn't carrying the puck, win the board battle, and then go to the front of the net and either get your rebound or help Backy cycle," Willy recites.

"Good, good, but no," Alex says. "Backy, you want to try?"

"I never take your advice. I give _you_ advice," Nicky says.

"True," Alex allows. "Okay, but what do I say."

Nicky looks at him. "Should I do the Ovi voice too?" he asks solemnly, and then he smiles and Alex wants to kiss him more than anything, coffee-breath and bedhead and all. He wants to put both hands on either side of Nicky's face and slide his fingers into his hair and the warm hollows behind his ears. Sometimes when Nicky is asleep, he likes to stealthily wind a piece of Nicky's hair around his finger, and no matter what he's still trying to win in the post-season, it's still the most precious ring of gleaming gold he'll ever have, on or off the ice.

Nicky scrunches up his face. "Boys!" he says in a completely horrible imitation of Alex's voice. "Okay, boys. Yes, sometimes controller disconnect, even if everyone always do shit with it when Crosby do exact same bad move and no one wants to say shit about precious Canada baby, but no excuse. Always a bad move. Someone always watches bad moves, so keep skating, score more goals, and win chicken wings and give Don Cherry a heart attack."

More confused silence in the car. Willy opens and closes his mouth a couple times. "So, like… play so you don't be a bad meme?"

"It means," Alex says with great dignity. "That even if you mess up, lose over and over and not do it right, you go again. Don't give up. Also, yes, play like everything is gonna be meme. Everyone out of the car. Backy, you switch with me, need you to be in driver seat. Keep the car running."

The kids all follow Alex around to the back of the car where he opens the trunk and hauls out the duffle bags; Nicky comes around and stands by the driver's side.

"Okay, first," Alex says, as he unzips one of the bags, "be confident. Not many people bother you if you act confident." He yanks out two reflective vests and tosses one to Willy. "Second, look around. It's a long road. Lots of signs."

"Is that a life metaphor, or something?" Latts asks.

"No," Alex says, and points up; all three kids look up as well, and finally get a clue. "We gonna steal this sign. Same Wilson road, but this is far enough from first sign you try to steal. Burky, Latts, set up ladder. Willy, put on the vest. It's your sign, you gonna do this."

"Are those bolt cutters?" Willy asks, looking into the bag.

"Try the socket wrench set first," Nicky says, from by the car. "Less damage to the sign. Did Goose bring WD-40?"

"We have hacksaw, too!" Alex calls back. As well as some chain to just yank the post out of the ground if it comes to that, but he hopes it won't. It's a dark section of street and it's closer to four in the morning, and only one car has gone by, but Alex figures it will be safest if they're done and gone in the next fifteen minutes. When he looks back, all the kids are staring at him. "What? Hurry up."

"Have you stolen a sign before?" Latts asks.

"Not me," Alex says. "I helped before, though. Not my first rodeo. "

"Who'd you help?" Burky asks.

Alex doesn't get a chance to answer before Nicky comes over and takes the vest out of his hand, shrugging into it. "You be the driver," he says to Alex. "I'll do this."

"You sure?" Alex asks. "If we get caught, all go to jail, we need one person to get away. I figured you."

"You have the most money for bail," Nicky says. "Besides, I'm better at it."

"Backy, it was _you_?" Willy asks incredulously. "Did Ovi bail you out?"

"I didn't get caught," Nicky says, only a trifle smugly. "Ovi bailed us out then because Greenie was going to get arrested for something else. I already stole the sign before that."

"Greenie wandered away, had to take a piss. Picked the wrong spot," Alex explains. He'd ruined so many team bets about which of them was the most likely to get tagged for a public indecency charge, too. "Okay, Backy's in charge. I'm gonna wait in the car."

"Time me," Nicky says.

This is how they work so well together on and off the ice: Nicky directs and outlines what to do, and Alex… does it. He sits in the car, still running, and sips at the now-cold McDonalds coffee before dumping it out the window and drinking Coke instead. He does time the whole process. Even though Willy is the one using the tools, Nicky has the sign off the post within eight minutes and twenty four seconds; the ladder is folded up and the tools are back in the bags and the bags are back in his trunk within three minutes and forty five seconds, and they do, in the end, have everyone back in the car, with the sign across Latts' and Willy's laps in under fifteen minutes. No one even accidentally cuts off a finger.

"Thirteen minutes, seventeen seconds," Alex informs Nicky.

"We didn't need the hacksaw," Nicky says.

"Good to have anyway," Alex says. He hands the travel mug back to Nicky; there's still a swallow of coffee at the bottom that he'll want.

"What sign did you steal before?" Burky asks. "Is it at the house? How come I've never seen it?"

"I can't believe Backy is a criminal," Willy says. "Like, we all know he's got the best hands on the team, but who saw it coming that he uses them to _break the law_."

"If you put pictures of the sign on Twitter or Instagram or anything, my best hands will choke you," Nicky says calmly. He finishes his coffee.

"He steals sign that says Nicky Lane, from Alexandria," Alex says. He could tell them they haven't seen it before because it's not at Nicky's house at all; it's at Alex's. He keeps it in the trophy room, in the state and place of high standing that it deserves. But right now, he's beginning to feel the caffeine leaving him, and retelling the epic love story of their team parents to the rookies probably deserves more time and a reenactment with additional props than Alex can manage in the car for the next ten minutes. Plus, Latts and Willy are holding hands again, on top of the sign now, and he doesn't want Latts to suddenly feel like he has to go out and steal a street sign that corresponds to his own name to exchange with Willy to prove his love.

Driving back to the apartment complex where the kids live doesn't take long. It's still dark out, when Alex parks, and he helps Latts and Willy sneak the sign up to their apartment in one of Alex's duffle bags. Nicky's down a few floors at Burky's apartment, checking some piece of Ikea furniture that Burky's apparently just bought and still having trouble making it stay together.

"So," Alex says, feeling like he's supposed to finish the night off with something deep, but mostly just wanting to go home and go to bed. Thank God they don't have practice tomorrow. Today. Whatever. "Well."

He puts his hands in his pockets, and then takes them out again. "Oh, yes. Nicky give these back to me to give to you." He hands over their licenses.

"So, uh," Latts says, looking weirdly shy. "Thanks, Ovi. For you know—everything. Coming to get us, and being cool about it, and about—yeah. Everything."

"Okay," Alex says. He pats each of them on the shoulder, and then decides that anyone who had to get yelled at by Nicky for over forty five minutes probably deserves a hug, so he hugs both of them. They hug back, and then Willy jerks in his arms.

"Oh!" Willy says, pulling away. "Wait, hang on, we just gotta—hang on!"

He hurries out to the kitchen, and then comes back with—

"Huh," Alex says, not entirely sure of how to react when handed a glass skull full of what looked like vodka. "It's nice."

"It's called Crystal Head Vodka," Willy explains. "It's made by Dan Aykroyd, you know, from _Ghostbusters_ and the other movies. Since you said the Popov's wasn't any good, we went back to the store and bought a bunch of vodkas, and this one looks the coolest, so. If you want it, you can have it."

Alex studies it, turns it over in his hands, and decides it really is the thought that counts. "I love it," he says. "I'm gonna do a shot every time I score goal. Or when you score goal. Actually, we all do a shot right now, because no one is in jail."

And they do, and it's room temperature because his kids are stupid about how they store their vodka, but the important thing is they're _trying_ , and Alex will continue working with them on this, and everything else. The warmth from that (and from the shot) lasts him all the way back down to the car where Nicky is already waiting for him.

"You fix it?" Alex asks.

"For now. I told him he didn't need the _Liatorp_ , that the _Bestå_ was better value, but he never listens," Nicky says. He sighs. "Rookies. Kids."

"Latts and Willy did try to give me their best skull vodka this time," Alex concedes. "I think, maybe they can turn out okay."

"Those words don't make sense together," Nicky says, "but I already know I don't want to know." He looks tired, soft bluish shadows under his eyes, but there's a fondness in his sigh anyway, and the fact Alex knows it's for Burky, for Willy and Latts, for _all_ their team and always, always for Alex too, just makes the warmth spread through his whole chest, like he's unable to hold it in. He feels overflowed, cracked open with it, helpless not to feel it as inevitable and bright, like a new day coming over the horizon every day.

 "It's all right. Kids are all right. All of us all right," Alex says, and he smiles too, as they get in the car and drive home together.

**Author's Note:**

> Much thanks to the organizer of the exchange! And much thanks to Weagle Rock, who let me panic at her on tumblr, and provided several funnier lines that I blatantly stole.
> 
> The title is from Cheap Trick's "Surrender." Inspired in part by [this](http://thornescratch.tumblr.com/post/144154902553/caps-breakaway-if-you-got-arrested-who-would-you), and [this](https://sports.yahoo.com/nhl/blog/puck_daddy/post/Ovechkin-on-beating-speeding-tickets-Sean-Avery?urn=nhl,95225).


End file.
